100 Cocktails Later

Behind this bar he only wanted the misfits. For this bar he didn't want the chatty types or the good looking kids. Sure, he wanted them to be dressed smart but he could take care of that. No, what he needed was the kids with a low self esteem, who were used to being ignored, comfortable in their faded existence. Kids who got out of their houses quick and stayed out, who weren't missed when they were gone. The ones with stamina. This bar was going to be small, compact, and have a very particular clientel. No signs on the door, nor lights in the window. A password to get in and different door to get out. He needed kids who were used to keeping secrets, not phased by being ignored. The suits and boots that would grace the polished wood floor of this place were misfits too, they just found their way to make their money in the world, and where to drink it all away on only the most balanced and beautiful cocktails. The reasons why the folk needed to shine the golden lights from the bubbles into their murky depths, that was their business. Works of liquid art, that was his. And what he needed, was shaker boys.
Heading through the rougher side of town, past the splintered boxes and the bent lines of the out of use tracks. The silence split by the occasional roar of domestic anguish, or the squeak of old springs that held bones that were owned by others. He'd heard there was a kid around here, that could bend metal. Any metal they'd said, bikes, trolleys, hub caps, you name it, he could bend it. Walking round the cigarette littered alleys finally honed him into the sound. The squeak and stretch of metal as it meets its new angles, followed by gentle 'tings'. Down at the bottom an alley, there he was, bending the vomit of industry, and stacking it, delicate as a Sultan with a glass zoo. Even in the dim light, as his shoes snagged on the grit, he could see the thickness in the kids forearms.
'What do you want bending?' came a silky tone that leaked through the gaps of the sculpture.
'Want to know why they put egg whites in cocktails?' The kid glared at the high polish of this man who had come out of his way to see him, his eyes chewed their way up the pinstriped suit like a moth, settling on the clean and refined face that was held on the top, 'I don't do riddles mister'.
'They put egg whites in cocktails, because it takes the tartness out of the citrus with out removing the flavour. It gives body, it balances, it binds'. This meaning nothing to the kid on the floor, he returned to studying the metal. 'I'm busy, what do you want?'
'Want to earn some money putting that strength to good use?'
'Look mister, I may be broke but I aint desperate.'
'This aint what you think kid, I make cocktails, it's nothing weird, it's something beautiful, and what I need is shaker boys.'
'Shaker boys? I told you, I aint into any of that stuff.'
'Trust me, this is respectable business. And I need good strong boys who can shake good strong cocktails. You know the back of the old play house?'
'On the other side? Sure, you won't catch me that way.'
'Maybe this time I will, head to the back of the old play house, tomorrow night at 9, the small door on the right that looks like it's boarded up, knock three times and when they ask what you want, say "A Negroni".
'Negroni' he whispered, still confused.
'Yeah, and 100 cocktails later, we''ll see if you got what it takes. Now, if you don't mind, I heard there is a kid around here somewhere who can walk on his hands, all day and all night if he
wants to, you know anything about this kid?'
'I know the one, he could be anywhere, that one moves fast, but a good guess this time of night would be the old cooling tower, the one with 365 steps running right the way to the top.'
'Nice one kid. Don't forget, you want a Negroni'
'And what do I call you?'
'Henry, Henry.C.Ramos'.